A Brief Employment
by DreamingCynic
Summary: "A pity," sighed his mistress's voice. "It's so hard to find a good butler nowadays." AU Gaahina
1. Bloody Wednesday

**Wednesday,11 of August, 1999**

* * *

><p>He dragged himself along the walls of the Hyuuga mansion, stealing breaths, and knocking paintings and cobwebs askew, leaving marks on antiques. His clumsiness was not intended, but he staggered as if he were drunk, drunk-dizzy with pain and the liquid falling into his mouth. His throat closed every time he felt that taste of iron-<em>That taste, that taste ohmygod that taste<em>. The taste that was all too familiar was congealing on his tongue, and mixing with his saliva. It was his own blood, a reminder of his own persistent mortality dripping down his forehead, down his face, and into his mouth, forced open with need for air.

He had forgotten how he had loved the taste of blood more than his kin, and his body quivered with distaste and disgust, yet hungered for more, having been starved for so long.

He had forgotten what the taste of blood did to him. He'd had other things, important things, things that had distracted him. They had been erased now, and only his bloodlust remained.

Tears rolled down his cheek, mixing with the blood from his forehead.

His leg hung limp behind him, and he limped with the aid of the walls, his hands covered in dust and blood. _Hers or his? _His head ached, and he could feel the torn pieces of skin, skin that flapped as he walked and places on his forehead that ought to be covered with skin, but were now exposed and ached. Blood flowed over his left eye, and lumps began to clot in his eyebrows and lashes. He staggered onwards, desperate to reach her haven, his leg bleeding too, and useless. He looked backwards, and noted that a trail of blood from his leg was leaving a trail on the marble floors. That blood was his.

He almost fell, but caught himself, telling himself he only had a few more steps to go. How many times had he stalked these halls with elegance in his brief employment here? He came finally to that wooden door, and with the last ounce of strength, he pushed against it.

With desperate breath he fell through the doorway of the sitting room, the enormous heat of the room cumulating in his stomach. He fell onto the floor, and spat, retching onto her threshold, his empty stomach only allowing the passage of foul smelling but clear liquids to drench onto the patterned carpet. He looked up to that chair, his head covered in blood that matched his hair, and his leg twisted at a strange angle to his body.

He attempted to look up to the room he had entered so many times, realising only now, when it mattered the least, that this was not a sitting room, but a small library. Heavy shelving covered the walls, and books were piled up on nearly every available surface, and even on the floor, their silhouettes tiny against that of the fire, huge and blazing. And of course, that chair. That huge and utterly stupid chair, which he knew held his only hope.

"I n-need your help." He wheezed to the inhabitant of the chair, his head too heavy, and dropping, falling to rest against the spittle on the carpet. His stomach acid stank and stung against his head wound, but he lacked the energy or desire to raise his head. He opened his eyes, one more time for a glimpse of his saviours resting place, that ridiculous, grandiose chair, his breath making ripples in his vomit.

His view was obscured by a small pair of feet, pale and tiny, and blue with cold even though the sitting room sweltered with heat. "A pity." Sighed his mistress's voice. "It's so hard to find a good butler nowadays."

His view faded to black.

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>

A more serious attempt on my account, something I've been working on, and playing with for a long while. Hinata's not going to be sweet, kind and cuddly, and Gaara isn't going to be a raging psychopath. Not yet, at least.

Is anyone interested? Is this worth continuing with?

Thank you for reading.


	2. New Start Monday

**Monday, 5****th**** of April, 1999**

* * *

><p>"I'm looking for a new butler, as you are well aware of." Informs a voice, high, feminine and originating the arm chair by the fire. She speaks with the same authority that age and money can only provide, and the way that she pronounces her words reveals her age. "What is your experience?"<p>

Gaara bows his head to the dark chair, unable to see her feet, and rambles off a list of four or five different employers, addressing the back of this old, patterned, rococo chair in front of the huge fire. The sitting room is far too warm for his liking, and waves of heat roll from the flickering fire, the logs crackling in the heat. He has become acclimatised to British winter now, and is used to the cold nipping at his heels, and rainy mornings. The sudden displays of good weather are unnerving, to say the least.

Heat only serves to make him uncomfortable now.

"So many employers." She comments from the chair. "What were your reasons for leaving those households?"

"Ah… Many houses do not require the services of a butler anymore. There are so many automated machines and so forth. Only the truly illustrious concern themselves with servants, my Lady." The fire rages, and Gaara watches, awestruck. He has never seen a fire like this contained within a hearth. Not that he has seen many traditional hearths being used, but this fire would be more fitting as a Bonfire rather than a simple heating fire.

A titter of short laughter is heard from that chair. "Really?... The flattery is rather blunt."

He freezes, worried he has ruined his prospects in this house. He needs this job desperately. He's been unemployed for a while now, and his daughter will soon be starting school, and his wife needs her medication. She's not able to work with her illness, and although his unemployment meant he was able to look after her and their daughter, they are in dire straits financially. He needs this. He hasn't the legal status to start claiming benefits. That, and his pride won't allow him.

He starts to formulate a simple apology, or even a remark that will win her trust. He just doesn't know what words to use, or in which order. He knows she's old, far, far older than he is, but he has no idea how to communicate his apologies over so many generations. Before his mouth can react, the lady in the chair speaks.

" I need a man who can familiarise himself with my previous Butler's routine, and busy himself. I offer a permanent residence. How old are you?"

"Thirty-two" Answers Gaara truthfully, and he can already hear the clockwork ticking in the woman's head. To her, he must seem too young to die before her, and too old to work irresponsibly.

Eventually, the high-pitched voice gives her approval and arrangements- his scheduled hours, his pay, his leave, and his duty to stay on call at all hours. She wants him to live within the house so he can attend to her at all times, but he tells her with some satisfaction that he has a family containing a young child with sleeping problems. He doesn't mention that he normally has more problem with getting to sleep that his daughter.

But still, the offer is retracted almost immediately. So she is a crabby old woman who hates children, Gaara thinks, a smirk forming on his lips.

"The work will begin nine O'clock next Monday .The twelfth. I should hope that you are properly attired and that you are prepared for a morning of routine silverware polishing- the cutlery has not been seen to recently since my last Butler's death. That is all. You are dismissed."

Gaara bowed to the chair and voice, the instinct to bow ingrained on him from his apprenticeship and employment. "As you wish," he murmured. "Lady Hyuuga."

The voice from the chair made no remark on his departure, but with his absence a small hand gloved in silk extended from the chair and stole a thick tome from a pile of books to the side of her chair.

* * *

><p><strong>Wednesday, 7<strong>**th**** of April, 1999**

* * *

><p>"Daddy! What do you mean that you'll not be playing with me as much!" his daughter pouted with lips inherited from her mother.<p>

Gaara ruffled her untameable red hair. "Daddy has got to go back to work darling." He explains, in a voice that knows that no matter how smooth or casual the delivery, his daughter will not accept this. Before she can protest further, he adds, "But now Daddy will be able to buy you far more presents and sweets."

His daughter nibbles on her lip and concentrates, her mind void of any mathematical skills but honed in blackmail.

"Well?" He probes in his husky, scratchy voice.

She clasps her pudgy hands together. "Yuka says okay!" and smiles broadly, her piggy little mind already thinking of all the sweets she can buy with this new money. "Can I have flying saucers?"

Gaara nods, not quite sure of what they are. "And refreshers?" He nods again, and his daughter squeals in delight.

"Oh Gaara, I told you not to spoil her." Matsuri comments, her pretty face curled into frown. She has worn that expression all too often recently, and that frown has already started to bite into her prettiness, leaving slight wrinkles and mean looks in its wake.

Daughter rushes to mother, and Yuka yammers about Daddy's new job, and how they'll have money and she'll have presents. Matsuri makes no effort to listen to her daughter's silliness, and stares at her spouse as if he were a stranger in her kitchen.

"You got a job without telling me?" She asks, her voice pitching slightly to reveal how angry she is.

"We talked about this." Gaara answers, noticing how even Yuka, a hapless four year old, has shifted away from her mother's radiating anger.

"When?"

"Last night. We talked about the interview. We've been talking about my employment for months. Can you remember darling?" He softens his voice to aid delivery and make it more amicable to his wife's ears.

Matsuri's eyes narrowed with concentration, and hapless as her daughter, she shook her head slowly.

"Okay. That's okay." Of course it bloody was. Everything nowadays had to be bloody okay with Gaara. The tiny flat was okay, his wife's illness was okay, that look she gave him when she woke up and looked at him with shock because she didn't know who he was- that was okay. All of it was totally fucking okay.

"I love you." She said, out of turn and out of nowhere, weakly and without direction. "I'm sorry." She talked without any real regret. He doubted that she even knew what was going on or what she had said wrong, but it was an excuse, the best one in the book, and easy to boot.

"It's okay." He said, for the third time, pretending that it was. "Shall we go to the park?"

He didn't really want to go to the park, but he couldn't think of anything else to fill in that awful silence.

Yuka smiled, her mouth full of gaps for teeth to come through. Matsuri shook her head, and went back to the comfort of their bedroom, locking herself away to shake and cry and to promptly forget what she was crying about, but to simply cry for the sake of crying and then to infuse herself into a deep paranoia, which he would have to diffuse when he returned.

Gaara didn't fail to note the expansion of Yuka's smile with her mother's retreating back, but feeling her little pudgy hand take his, his fears and intuition disappeared, and they turned out of the apartment to walk to the park, her hand safely held within hers.

* * *

><p><strong>Monday, 12<strong>**th**** of April, 1999**

* * *

><p>He entered the sweltering heat of the sitting room, the curtains closed still and the fire still roaring although it was a fine day outside. "May I open the curtains my Lady?" He asked, moving without due instruction.<p>

"No." hissed a voice, almost desperate that he wouldn't. He faltered, and came to the conclusion that the rich and aged may do whatever they like with their money. Lady Hyuuga preferred to spend it on roaring fires and thick curtains. As long as she continued to pay him regularly, he would be more than happy to see to any whim, should it be obtaining a diamond encrusted pill-box or seeing that she had slippers made of the finest spun silk. The money was good enough for him to forge some form of affection for his new mistress.

"I mentioned before that the Hyuuga silverware needs some attention. Please see to it that you do give it the attention that it so dearly needs. When that is finished please report to me."

"Where-"

"Within the old Butler's sitting room there is a side table where the materials will be kept. In the second dining room there is an armoire- rococo period, gold engravings. The secondary sliver-ware is kept there. The best silverware is in the first dining room, which is on the second floor. My maid, Kurenai will be around, so any problems, she will be within the kitchen. Please, do not disturb me for trivial matters. You are dismissed."

Gaara bowed to the chair, unable to refrain himself of that habit, and exited the room, glad that the old woman was not able to make out his discomfort nor the sweat that rolled from his hairline down his face.

Wiping his face with a secreted handkerchief, he stole away to the Butler's rooms- rooms that he could have found himself in, that were more comfortable than his tiny flat. Despite the comfort, he was happy that his family had not moved. He doubted that Matsuri in her increasing fragility could have coped with hallways that were not reassuringly similar.

The Hyuuga mansion was sprawling. The corridors and rooms, although narrow and crooked, had high ceilings and were filled with so many antiques. He had counted more than one room was filled to the brim with piled up furniture and filled with dust. Obviously, this maid, Kurenai, did not touch these rooms. The floors, cold stone and marble clicked under his heels. Lady Hyuuga was rolling in it.

He investigated the polishing equipment, and taking the thick cloths and thinner polishing, shining cloths. He also noted the polishing cream, and shook the tin. It was fairly full, so he wouldn't run out. Piling the utensils into his arms, he made his way down a servant's staircase and down into the servants corridors, eventually winding back into a main corridor and to the second dining room.

He found the armoire and was observing the piles of unused silverware when he sensed a presence behind him. He turned, alerted and found himself facing a small, dark haired boy.

"Who are you?" Asked the boy, puffing out his cheeks and burrowing his eyebrows down his forehead. Gaara guessed that he must be just over twelve. The boy was olive skinned and had dark brunette hair, and wore clothes far too big for his tiny frame. No doubt, his parents planned that he would grow into them. Gaara did the same with his own daughter.

"I was thinking the same thing." Gaara answered narrowing his eyes in mock anger and watching the boy flinch. Inside he smirked, glad that he still retained that same wrathful power as he had done when he was younger. The fact that he was terrifying a small boy didn't contain his odd jubilation.

The boy frowned. "I'm telling my mum!" He taunted.

"There's no need Asuma." Came the voice of his mother, tired and stressed. "You're the new Butler?" She directed at Gaara, throwing on a casual smile and placing a hand on her tiny waist.

Gaara nodded. "Kurenai I presume?"

"Yes." She gave another generous smile that highlighted her face, but also made Gaara realise just how old she was. Lines littered her face, and her skin was deathly pale. Her bright lipstick didn't displace her age. She had once been very pretty, and in truth she still was a handsome woman, but she was so tired and thin and just worn out.

She carried herself elegantly, even when pulling her cleaning trolley behind her. She had the body of a dancer- thin but not weak, taunt muscles on slender limbs. She still wore make-up and dyed her hair to a dark brunette. Gaara wouldn't have realised had he not caught a glimpse of grey roots with a flick of her hair.

"I've been told to call on you if I need any help."

Kurenai, gestured futilely with her hands. "If I find anything pretty heavy that I need moving, I'll probably call on you, otherwise, I don't think that you'll have any problems." She gestured with her hands. "It's fairly straightforward. Most of the time she likes to keep the house tidy really, though I guess you might have a few more duties than me. I'll call you when I make some lunch." She smiled again and hooked her son viciously by the arm, tearing him out of the room with a ferocious scowl.

Gaara settled down to the covered table-long enough to sit around eight, he supposed by the chairs. He reached into the trove and found the first of many pieces of silverware.

Much later, and after he had eaten the lunch which Kurenai had kindly provided, he finally finished all the silverware, his hands dark and musty, but the silverware gleaming, and with a smile and jaunt in his step he walked in the dim gloom to the sitting room.

The heat still emanated from the room, and Gaara almost paused before going in. He opened the door and entered the lion's den.

"The silverware is polished." he announced, bowing as to make his sudden entrance less presumptuous.

"Good. The time?" came the voice from the chair.

"Four O'clock Ma'am."

"Have you had lunch?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Stop calling me Ma'am with that awful American drawl. If you're going to address me, do so as Mistress Hinata." Gaara dipped his head to the chair, not knowing why, but unable to question his movements. That chair smelt of authority.

"Anything else Mistress?"

" I want a cup of tea. Two teaspoons of sugar. Half cup of milk. Heated. I keep my personal tea in my own kitchen…" She drew off, as if she were going to disclose some great secret. "Second floor, behind the second dining room. An entrance is through a secret knob on the waist coating, close to the armoire. The sugar and tea are to be found in the first cupboard on the left. The milk is within the fridge." She paused. "The normal, open fridge. I also want my best silverware to stir it with. Is that understood?"

Gaara nodded, only to have to voice his agreement. "Yes, Mistress."

"Go on then-"

Gaara wound his way down to the second floor and made his way to the second dining room, finding the room with ease but taking a while to find this hidden knob. He found it to the left of the armoire, a bizarre lump in the wood waist coating, no larger than his thumb. As soon as he pressed down onto it, a fission he had not noticed became apparent as a hidden panel submerged into the waist coating. He pushed against it, realising the panel ran parallel to the waist coating.

It was surprisingly hard work, and the panel only shifted slightly, even under his weight, and he had to strain to open up the back passage. He peered down it. He knew passages like this belonged in old houses, for the servants to come and go presumably from this hidden kitchen directly to the dining room. Ingenious.

The dark passage was incredibly dark, but from the light of the dining room, a switch was revealed. Flicking that musty switch revealed a back passage illuminated by single hanging light bulbs.

He followed this passage into the bowels of the house, where only artificial light existed.

The Kitchen itself was surprisingly small and cramped. He noticed that all the fittings were fairly modern- New, as was the steel door that marked another exit, perhaps. He turned to the first left cupboard and found the tea and sugar (brown), and with ease found the milk (full fat) in the fridge.

All the while he felt an odd sense of being watched, over from that steel door. Whilst waiting for the milk to heat, he wandered to the steel door and gazed into the pane of glass, wondering why the hairs on the back of his neck were lifting with electric tension. The pane revealed nothing- the glass was blacked out, but the steel was artificially heated, almost as if the door was the entrance to a walk in fridge. Gaara shuddered, and was ashamed that it was not a shudder of disgust, but of nostalgia. In his previous jobs he had far too much experience when it came to industrial sized fridges.

Shaking his head, he turned away, only for that same remarkable feeling express discomfort down his spine. With sudden curiosity he made to open the door, grasping at the knob. It did not budge. He used both hands now, his hands clammy. The door was locked, and the milk hissed, threatening to boil over.

He dragged himself away from the steel door and whisked up the drink. He then half-ran with the drink down the corridor into the dining room, and then down corridors and up staircases to the sitting room. "Mistress?" He enquired.

"Place it on the table. Consider your services dismissed for the day. Thank you for your troubles."

Placing the steaming tea on a side table closer to him than her, he bowed and departed, a solemn, fake smile set upon his face.

* * *

><p><span>Authors Note<span>

It's a boring chapter I'm afraid, but a lot is learnt (And hopefully you have realised that the Hyuuga mansion is a huge sprawling London town-house, that's too large for it's own good- it's falling into disrepair. If I haven't conveyed that, I've failed miserably)

Yes- Don't worry about the OCs (they don't play any large part, and it's quite nice to see Gaara having "fathering" moments. I've actually grown fairly attached to Yuka- the you don't like them, just think of them as plot devices, because they won't be important.) And yes, Gaara is hitched with Matsuri *Le Gasp*. Hopefully I'll do a good job of conveying their relationship (Which is almost as desolate as the Hyuuga house.) Don't worry if you don't ship GaaMatsu- If you do ship GaaMatu, then this fic probably isn't for you. (Though I'm against any kind of character bashing- I'm not going to destroy Matsuri's character in the process.)

Hinata is a little out of character (like she always is when I write!), but there's a reason. A good reason.

Oh- 12Hinata123- you seem to have disabled your private messaging, so I couldn't leave you a warm thank you note- So here it is ;)

Thank you for reading :)


	3. Curious Tuesday

**Tuesday 20****th**** of April 1999**

* * *

><p>"How did you gain employment?" Asked Kurenai, her voice curious. Asuma had actually gone to school today and wasn't hanging around his mother whilst she worked. It made things much easier for her.<p>

"I was signed through a contractor I signed up with. She located me specifically." He told her, unused to telling the truth, and munching on the sandwich she had provided him.

"Ah," she sighed, her voice forlorn as she sat down opposite him in the staff kitchen. "It was the same with me…" She traced tracks invisible to the eye on the wooden table, and looked up at him, her eyes scheming.

Gaara recognised that look. "Yes?" He enquired.

Kurenai smiled. "Do you have a small child, or are there people dependant on you?"

"I have a family, a wife and small child." He answered, after some thought. He didn't like to give out personal information. He'd learnt not to give out this information in the most painful of ways.

"Ah. I was contracted after Asuma was born." She smiled, languishing in nostalgia. "I was a dancer, but my lover died before I even knew I was pregnant. Got into a fight. We were both artists." She savoured the word _artists_ like her lover had savoured cigarettes. "Poor. No savings, no money. I was desperate. And then I was contracted, directly, through the women's institute I had found myself in. All the employees who I have seen go through this place in the thirteen years have been people who had hit rock bottom, and then moved onwards and upwards, thanks to our Lady. I'm rather quite fond of her." Kurenai finished. "Were you on rock bottom too?" She questioned, her voice sweetened to ease out the information.

Gaara's mouth settled into a frustrated line. "We were in dire straits. My wife was ill, and my child is young, but we had a roof, our own, rented roof, above our heads, and we were not at rock bottom. We were close though. My savings from my previous employment had run out, but we were not at total rock bottom"

"Ah. You've almost upset my benevolent benefactor theory." Kurenai frowned, almost pouting. "What was your job?"

"Valet, slash Butler. I was whatever I needed to be really." He puzzled over that statement later. Was it a half-truth or a false lie? All in all he decided- his earlier employers had been true, and officially he was known as a butler/valet, it was a half-truth.

"Perhaps she sourced you because she knew you had the skills, and there wasn't anyone more deserving." She mused, and then paused to smile, calculating Gaara into her hypothesis.

"Have you ever seen her?" Gaara asked, curious about the nature of his employer.

Kurenai tossed her head about, her long hair falling about and getting into her eyes. "I've seen that chair. I don't tidy that room. I think she keeps it herself, though I have offered." She smiled. "Anything to help her though. She must be very aged." She thought for a moment. "Actually…"

Kurenai threw herself off her chair, and out of the staff kitchen, a few minutes later she returned, carrying a small picture frame, which she passed over to Gaara.

" I found this the other day." She said, excitedly.

The small frame fitted into Gaara's palm, and through the musty glass protection, three pale profiles were visible. The picture itself was black and white, and the whiteness of the three faces shined out through the age-stained glass. He flipped the frame over, and unhooked the back, extracting the picture. He noted some writing on the back in clean italic script.

_February, 23__rd__ 1885_

_Hanabi-Eighteen, Neji- Twenty-two, Hinata-Twenty-one, _

He righted the picture. The boy in the middle, presumably Neji, stared ruthlessly at the camera with a contemptuous smirk and raised smile. His hair was long, and his forehead was bandaged. He would have supposed him a girl, had it not been for Neji's long Roman nose and manly chin. The girl to his right looked out of the photo, her frozen expression and consequential blush caused by something out of the camera's view. Her eyes were hidden under her thick fringe, and she was blurred in her action. He supposed this was Hinata. Something to do with slow exposure, he supposed. The younger girl smiled tempestuously to the left side of Neji, her raised smile almost identical to her elder relative. Only the girl on the right looked out of place.

Neji and Hanabi shared the same white-grey pupil less eyes that gleamed out of the photograph, and they all had that dark gleaming hair, though Hinata's looked darker, though it could be a trick of light. It was odd photograph for the period- most Victorian photos called for solemn expressions and casual indifference. There was something about the way Neji and Hanbi cuddled together, and smiled together with the same painful expression that made this photo curious to the extreme. There was also something about the way they stood away from Hinata, a noticeable gap between them and the middle sibling. He turned to Kurenai, his expression in limbo. What was this photo's consequence?

"I thought one of those girls could be our mistress." Smiled Kurenai, who hadn't seen the back.

He enlightened her, and showed her the back.. "It's far too old for our Mistress to be one of these people."

He looked over it again, analysing the three. It was almost as if the two other siblings, Neji and Hanabi, were edging away from Hinata, grouping together against her. Suddenly he recognised that shared expression on the youngest and eldest. Fear. Concealed with a smirk more grimace like than sly. He'd seen it on men in his old line of work, and it was that type of shit that kept him up at night.

That and the consequences of that fear. Gaara glanced over the picture, singling out the blurry blushing figure and wondering what it was about this tiny dark figure that inspired such terror in her siblings.

Kurenai pursed her lips. "Then perhaps she was named for one of these girls, this girl here, the girl looking to the side, blushing… She could be our Mistress's mother, or perhaps the woman she was named for."

"Perhaps," sounded Gaara, unconvinced.

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday 1<strong>**st**** of May 1999**

* * *

><p>Matsuri opened her eyes despite the sticky sleep that pierced then together, it hurt to open them. She lay in a bed, alone, and she recalled faintly that her husband had been exiled to the sofa. She tried to think about her husband, but could only remember a blur of colours, red and off-cream white, but not proper white and green-blue eyes. She burrowed her head in the pillow and groaned, sickened by the nausea that her imagery inflicted.<p>

Eventually, after that had passed, she moved out of her bed, and limped to the bathroom, noting her Husband and daughter were in the lounge. Good. Out of her way. She paused in the kitchen, and stole the drugs from her pill tray, holding the capsules and tablets in her clammy, sweaty hand.

She made it to the bathroom, and turned to the toilet, opening her palm and watching the drugs plop into the water below. Calmly she pulled the leaver, and the toilet flushed, and she felt calm, much calmer than she had before, safe in the knowledge that her husband couldn't poison her thoughts today.

A smile drifted over her face and then promptly forgot what she was smiling about, leaving her confused and disorientated.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door. "Are you all right Sweetheart?" Her husband asked.

She remembered what she had done. She panicked. He was onto her. "No… I'm fine." She answered, weakly.

"Call if you need help." Answered the voice, and footsteps were heard from the hallway back to the lounge. Oh God- she panicked, he knew what she had just done. He knew.

She looked for answered in the space around her, and her eyes alighted on her husband's razor. She picked it up, and began to examine it, knowing that before she had found relief in its sharp caress. She ran her finger over the blade, and then ran it the opposite way, tearing the skin off the top of her finger, and exposing red delicate skin.

"If I want the bad-yucky feelings to go…" She murmured, quiet so he couldn't hear her if he stood outside. "I have to cut out the bad-yucky. Cut it out." The razor pierced her already damaged skin, and this time she was rewarded with a slow ooze of blood, coupled with a pain she had not felt excavating the original wound.

She dropped the razor on the floor and ran her finger under the water, watching her blood spiral into the basin.

"Out." She murmured. "Out."

With stealth and cunning she picked up her husband's razor (cheap & disposable) and cleaned it, noting how her husband's hair- short, spiky facial hair, had been caught up in the razor. It needed to be cleaned. She inhaled slowly, and braced herself, her wound cleaned and slightly pink, but not suspicious. She cleaned it, and herself, and set it down, pacing out of the bathroom and down to the lounge.

She walked into the lounge, and was immediately assaulted by a barrage of sound.

"_Are you ready kids? Aye Aye Captain! I can't hear you… Aye, Aye…"_

It went on, and on, and it made no sense, but her family found it hysterical, whilst she quivered by the doorway, out of sight. Having listened to that peculiar song, and the combined gasps of laughter of her squealing daughter and hysterical husband, both of whom she only distantly recognised, she turned on heel and hurried to her bedroom, the contents of the lounge too unruly for her to deal with, and her bed soft and comforting and normal and real.

* * *

><p><strong>Thursday, 13<strong>**th**** of May 1999**

* * *

><p>"Gaara?"<p>

"Yes Mistress Hinata?"

"The machines you were talking about."

"Uh-?"

"On your first day. You said that there were many machines that replaced servants."

Gaara nodded his head, his body sweltering in his full uniform. "I did."

"Educate me. I have not kept up with technology, save for the kettle and fridge in my private kitchen."

Gaara had noticed the lack of a washing machine. "Yes, Mistress. There are washing machines, which clean dishes. There are also machines for laundry- tumble dryers too. Are you familiar with toasters and blenders? Both are used in the kitchen to prepare foods, and both do as they are named." He paused, thinking. "I'm sure you are familiar with radio, and presumably TV too? Have you also heard of computers, and the internet?"

"I have not heard about computers." Answered Hinata, her voice as was curious, despite the upper-class British accent.

Gaara tried to explain the internet, but left Hinata more mystified by the idea than she was initially.

"So it hangs in the air?"

"Yes, no. Sort of." He answers.

A bubbling laugh comes from Hinata's chair. "It is good that I did not employ you for your knowledge of technological advances." She jokes, and suddenly Gaara relaxes, even with the room being boiling and his collar being stiff.

"I employed you for reasons otherwise." Suddenly, that feeling he felt in the hidden kitchen returns, the hair on the back of his head extending and pulsing with some unknown tension. It expands down his back, and seeps down his legs, pooling in his leather loafers. He knows this feeling. It's not good.

"I know about your previous employment, Mr. Sabaku. I've watched you with great interest. I don't plan to blackmail you nor cajole you. I simply want a butler with your constitution." Her voice hitched slightly. "The money I will offer you can be expanded, and furthermore, the work that I want done will not be anything like the work you have done in the past. I don't dabble in illegal activities Mr. Sabuku, or at least, your old kind of illegal activities"

Gaara could feel that once familiar rage building inside his body, choking its way up his throat and blinding him in his anger. "And what activities are those, Mistress Hinata?" He spat.

He's more frightened than angry, but should she provoke him, he will lash out with more fury than he has ever shown in his life. He's lashed out before- for his life, for his ego, for the sheer fun of it, but now he has to protect others. He'll lash out with everything in his mortal body.

"I know fully well that you were head of a branch of mafia. Or rather, I know you were a personal valet of a Mafia leader, though I suspect you were the brains, and you pretended to serve as a form of protection. But you were feared. You, or your counterpart, at least, was known to torture members, Mr Sabaku. You were known as a sadistic monster amongst bastards. That's an achievement. Don't think I approve, because I don't. See this as your redemption. Your well-paid, safe redemption." She paused to clear her throat, and started again, her voice less shrill.

"But five years ago you went to ground. Crashed. Of course, the demon, Sabaku no Gaara still remained idolised in that underclass, but that branch faltered and died. Gaara no Sabaku, or the man playing you was assassinated. Why would you do that? Why would you leave that life?" Her voice shifted.

"A prostitute and an illegitimate child? I've seen men fall for far less things, and I can't help but admire your stature to leave that cruel life to look after your family. You and your siblings were abandoned by your father. You joined a gang at eleven and you stole at thirteen. By the time you were nineteen, you were the king of your neighbourhood, and by twenty you were an underling in the Mafia, and by the time you were twenty six, you were comfortable enough in your life- fast cars, easy women and money, lots of money, enough stop grasping for more.

I don't know why you left it all for her. Were you tired? Were you in love? I don't know. Enlighten me."

"Why should I tell you?" Gaara growled. Oddly enough, he felt bizarrely under-researched. There were so many things she could have said that would have doubled his awareness of her, but she had only stated a few aspects of himself.

When he was seven, he had killed his sister's cat for fun because he liked to scare her.

The last time he had cried was when his Uncle died when Gaara was five.

Gaara had been a very, very good assassin. Too good for the main role, but then again, too good to be denied it when he said he wanted it.

"Consider it a mandatory employer check."

He seethed that this old lady could possibly know anything about him. He thought he was safe. He thought he had escaped that world by clawing his way out. It ached to know he was wrong.

"I loved her. I didn't enjoy my life. I don't like fast cars. I don't like easy women. I like money enough, but it's not that important. You get bored after a while. You get tired of blood and killing, and you realise how futile it all is. You start to appreciate the things you thought weren't important. She was lost, like a million other girls in that world, but she was the only one to ever look me in the eyes and accept me. She's a lady in a million." He paused. "But I don't want my Baby to be like her. I want my daughter to go to school, and go to university and live a life ignorant of her parents' stupid mistakes."

"How did you find out?" He seethed to the chair.

"I have eyes all over. It was only when you entered my quarter of London that I decided on you. Had you lived somewhere else, I would have never known. I'm glad I've got you though. I mean no harm. I simply want my money's worth."

Gaara forced himself to relax, his muscles tied up in hard knots. He didn't know what games this woman was playing, but he ought to hear the full terms. "I can't allow myself to preform illegal activities. I have a commitment to my family."

A nervous titter was heard from the chair. "These activities are on the edge of illegal. A legal loophole I fall through."

"Well?"

The mistress sighed. "There are many, many wonderful things that can be done with the human body today. A great many things. I have a governmental contract that my family have established for many years. There are many bodies that are left, each year, to be disposed of. Their families don't claim their deaths, or they are unidentified- it doesn't matter really. The Hyuuga household began as a mortuary, and it remains so- our Government contract is to cremate the unwanted dead bodies. However… there are many, many things that can be done with organs, body parts nowadays. I would be foolish not to expect some lucrative profit."

Gaara grasped understanding. "You sell on the organ black market."

"That amongst other things."

Gaara shook his head. That was a genius stroke, and the evidence- the bodies were cremated after- the evidence removed. Mistress Hinata was running a perfect gig. He would have never thought about this in his days running in the Mafia. The nature of the game ensured that there was no real competition. "What do you want me to do?" He asked, his voice trying to not convey his awe.

Some hesitation niggled in the back of his head, but he pushed that aside to think of later. If he had any queries the old lady wouldn't be leaving this place anytime soon.

"I want a Butler, that on occasion can make deliveries. Does this explain why I wanted a man of your calibre, Mr Sabaku?"

Gaara smirked, to convey that wonderful lack of tension. A lesser man would have laughed. "Make deliveries. You're a genius."

After an embarrassed silence, the Mistress replied. "Thank you." She said. "Consider this."

Gaara bowed deeply, trying to not think of that odd niggle that still bothered him.

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>

Thank you for reading :)

...The mystery deepens...


	4. Choice Free Friday

**Friday, 28****th**** of May, 1999**

* * *

><p>He'd accepted. The money was good, and the chances of getting caught were low. His morals didn't come into the equation. Today was going to be his first drop. He didn't feel nervous, nor did he feel any kind of anticipation. He could have been polishing more silverware for all he cared.<p>

He stalked the Huuga hallways, sleek in his black and white uniform, his hair fluttering with each long stride he stole. In his palm rested Yuka's hand. She looked around the hallways in awe; she had never seen this kind of affluence before, and the thought that it was her father who cared for this household only added to her awe. Her black patient oxford shoes squeaked along the tiled hallway.

"Now sweetheart. Daddy's going to be busy today. I'm going to set you over to my co-worker, Kurenai for the day. She'll look after you."

Yuka nodded dumbly, her nerves increasing as she thought about having to meet a stranger. Gaara caught his daughter's expression in a burnished mirror, and gave her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Mummy needs her sleep" He murmured. "I won't be long, and when I'm done, you'll have to tag along with me. Okay?"

Yuka bit her lip, but nodded, her wide brown eyes concentrating on the décor of the mansion, rather than her father's reassuring words. He dropped her off with Kurenai, and headed to the second dining room, then to the hidden kitchen. Just as Hinata had briefed him, a white, rectangular bag labelled "**Human organs. Keep Cool."** in bold red writing lay within the freezer of the fridge. He retrieved the bag, and slinging it over his shoulder he headed downstairs, to the garage.

He had been already allocated the keys, and in the must of the garage he located the car (a black classic), and set out on his way, placing the bag in the passenger's stairwell. The bag was surprisingly heavy, and the bag itself wasn't cool to the touch at all. He thought it would have been. The treacherous thoughts he had been having earlier- that little niggle that wouldn't go away came to fruition with the stop-start motion of London traffic in the work rush.

There was a problem with the organ donation theory. A huge problem. A reason why major gangs never became involved with that sort of thing. Unlike drugs, or sex trafficking, there was no user-base- people didn't come back to buy again. Secondly, organs had to be matched. You were killing your patient otherwise, and although his mistress could be doing this, it wouldn't make any business sense- nobody would want to buy organs from a bad dealer- it would be better to go on the organ donation register or to go private- At least you were certain of getting the best match.

Perhaps in the third world things like this would happen, but here, in Britain? Gaara knew something was off.

But here was the real catch. Mistress Hinata had specified that the organs came from unwanted dead bodies- those presumably of the homeless, the unidentified, and the unwanted. But there was a problem. The homeless were more likely to have taken drugs, or to drink to excess- normally it was unknown what they would have died from. It would be a bad dealer practise. And then again, those unidentified and unwanted- how long would they be kept in a morgue? Organ donation was best done whilst the donor was still alive. The likelihood of a donation from a ten day old unnamed hobo being successful was unlikely.

His mistress' business didn't add up. He looked over to the passenger stairwell, where he could make out the red, angry font. He remembered that the bag didn't even feel cold. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he pulled out of the stream of traffic and found a quiet cul-de-sac away from prying eyes.

He pulled up the bag and examined it further. It was insulated, but he couldn't feel any coldness. Surely if he was couriering organs, the bag would be filled with ice.

He opened the bag. There wasn't any ice. Instead the bag was packed full of bags filled with a dark brown, maybe slightly reddish liquid. He pulled a bag out, and recognised it. He was far more used to the oxidised, red type of blood.

He shook it, remembering those alien days when he was younger, what he did to other people. His hand experimentally squeezed the bag. Was she doing a side-line in blood transfusions? Why would anyone pay for something that was readily available on the NHS? He shook his head. The business practise made no sense. It sounded good, but the realities of life meant that it couldn't work out lucratively.

There was no money. Why would she do it if there was no money?

He grunted, and placed the blood back in the bag, and the bag on the seat beside him. He turned on the engine, enjoying that illicit rumble of the old car. He turned out of the cul-de-sac and entered the stop-start traffic again, his head concentrating on the mysterious Hinata Hyuuga. Just what was her game?

Eventually, he pulled into a back alley behind a row of clubs, bars and restaurants. He had no doubt that as it was a Friday, tonight this place would be swilling with people. As for the moment, the garbage overflowed from dumpsters and dirty water congregated in puddles. He pulled out the map to double check. This was the place.

He grunted and got out of the car, the English weather was promising him rain, and small droplets began to fall.

A backdoor opened from one of the clubs. "Gaara yeah? Have you got the goods?"

Gaara blinked slowly as to assess this man without him noticing. Thick brown hair was stacked untidily on top of his head, and his smile was long and broad. A joker. His skin was tanned, and he carried two tattoos- a red fang on either side of his face. He carried himself well, and underneath his leather jacket and vest, muscles rippled. He wasn't a man to get into a fight with. To his side stood a giant hound, mostly white with few markings, and exiting now was a man, his face was sheathed by a hood, and his jacket was pulled up. He wore dark glasses even thought it was dark and threatening to rain.

The first man's smile expanded. "Hinata told you about us right?"

Gaara nodded. "Yes. Where do you want the goods?"

A glance was exchanged between the man in the glasses and the first man. He noted that the first man had odd pupils- they were more slit like than humanoid. Neither man wanted him to enter the building.

"I'll take them." Said the first man. "I'm Kiba, the dog's Akamaru, and this is Shino. How is my babe?"

"Babe?" murmured Gaara, unsure of the topic. The man named Shino took the bag of blood away and hurried through the door, and out of sight.

Kiba laughed, holding his belly with both hands. "Hinata's my babe dude!"

Gaara almost did a double take. His mistress was old. Incredibly old. And here was this man, claiming her to be his babe. Took all sorts in the criminal underground. "My mistress is well Sir.", He said, in a tight clipped voice.

"Good. Good. Tell her I was thinking of her." The dog barked too, as if to sound encouragement.

"O-of course Sir." Gaara murmured, bowing so he could regain his composure. Nodding, he drove away from the two bizarre men, his expression guarded, but his mind doing somersaults. Forget Hinata's odd business with blood and body parts- whatever she had with Kiba was far more scandalous.

Gaara exhaled, and made his way to the mansion, far more quickly this time, and with better progress. Even though the rain had progressed into downpour, the traffic had begun to speed up.

He got into the house, and it was only ten-thirty. Emerging from the garage he paced through the mansion, looking for Kurenai and his daughter. He found Kurenai scrubbing a fire-place in an abandoned store room, but his daughter was absent from sight.

"Oh." She said, smiling. "She's just left the room now to go to the loo."

Gaara bit his tongue in panic. She was four! She could hardly navigate the flat, let alone the Hyuuga mansion. There were stairs, steep stairs that conspired to turn friction against you, and the floors were either marble or tiled. And there were priceless antiques decorating the house. He thought of the cost his daughter could tote up on the way to the toilet and back, and blanched remarkably.

He scurried down the hallway, suddenly desperate to find her. He made his way down the hallway, not even attempting to delve down into the myriad stairwells and smaller corridors. He heard a giggle, girlish and alien in the house penetrate down the hallway.

His Mistress' door was open. He walked, the distance suddenly very short, and found himself at the door.

His daughter sat close to the fireplace, though he noted that a guard had been erected, so she would not wander too close and burn herself. She smiled and waved at him.

"Daddy, Miss 'Nata told me the real story about the Little mermaid. I didn't know she died!" She cried, her laughs gleeful, she turned back to the chair, basking in his mistress' attention.

"I have no problem entertaining Yuka for the moment. "Hinata's voice trills, and Yuka nods hypnotised. Gaara frowns. He's never seen his daughter so complacent, nor his Mistress's voice so light and airy. "Gaara. If you could make me some tea, as usual."

Gaara's crabby child-hating old woman theory defenestrates itself.

Gaara nodded, his fear subsided, but unwilling to leave. He knew his daughter was not in immediate danger but he had no real wish to leave his child with an organ - cum blood transfusion baron. Though her dealings in that were frankly suspicious. "Mistress. Mr Kiba wishes to report that he has been thinking of you." Gaara said, glad that the woman could not see his expression.

"U-uh…" She sounded genuinely shocked. "Tell him… tell him Thank you on your next excursion."

He sighed and left the room, leaving his young daughter with his Mistress. He'd never really had a choice either way.

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday, 8<strong>**th**** of June, 1999**

* * *

><p>He was out, and Matsuri allowed herself to breath freely. He had taken the girl too. Sometimes she looked at that girl, and yes, she admitted she was an amalgamation of herself and Gaara- the girl's eyes were brown, and her hair was red. Matsuri wouldn't admit that she didn't know her- she could admit that she sometimes didn't recognise Gaara, but a child, a child that looked so much like her, she couldn't admit to not knowing those features.<p>

She looked into her hand mirror, just to remind herself. There she was, those eyes, those lips. She recognised this face every time she saw it. Without fail. It was just other faces she had problems with.

She sighed excessively, the warm breath floating over the exposed skin of her breasts. She had pills that she ought to take, but she now had to move. She languished out of bed, and walked over to the kitchen, her feet splayed and her legs unsteady. The pills. The pills were in the sideboard. She took them out, and left them in her palm.

Suddenly a thought struck her. Perhaps her husband had installed cameras. Perhaps he was watching her now. She looked around. The kid wasn't in the flat to spy on her. Perhaps he had installed the camera's since he started to take her to work. Yeah. That must have been it.

She swept her eyes around the room, and with an exaggerated gesture, placed the pills in her mouth. She walked to the loo, and entered, closing the door and turning on the tap. The gushing water concealed her spitting noises. She was sure her husband wouldn't have installed cameras in the bath room, but perhaps, just perhaps he had installed sound sensors. She didn't know. Maybe. Who knew what he could do?

She'd heard rumours. Rumours she had ignored in the past but questioned now that she was weak and vulnerable She couldn't remember why she had ignored them then- she couldn't even remember then even, but she remembered rumours. She remembered a woman who was fat and wearing purple tights telling her that Sabaku had roasted a man alive in boiling oil alive for not following orders. She remembered in gauze of expensive perfume worn cheaply (slavered on, not sprayed) that Sabaku had ordered a prostitute being buried in a motorway support bridge so the cops wouldn't find her. She remembered that she had known that woman.

She remembered that that Sabaku of nightmares was her husband, and she had had his baby, and he gave her pills.

She had to take every precaution now. Her eyes slid over to Gaara's razor, innocent and gleaming. She picked it up, and like every routine, applied a little to her hand, allowing blood to spill over onto the blade. But she couldn't maintain it. For every bit of bad-yucky…for every drop of blood, there was pain, searing angry pain, and the wounds wouldn't heal over and would come unhitched after they had knotted themselves together again.

She couldn't go deep enough. She frowned further. She couldn't go any deeper. She could never get all the bad yucky out. Never. She could only ever scrape the top of it, and maintain it.

She could never ever cut it all out. Something broke in the back of her throat, and she snorted over the sink, her torn hand bleeding into the sink next to her daughter's pink toothbrush. Tears and snot covered her face and her legs failed her, and she sagged, weeping into the bowl.

She raised her face and looked into the mirror. A reflection of a stranger faced her. The stranger's mouth stretched into a desperate silent wail at a sadness and despair it couldn't quite remember the name of.

* * *

><p><strong>Wednesday, 23<strong>**rd**** of June, 1999**

* * *

><p>"I have some questions, If I may ask, Mistress." He commands, some of his lost vigour in his voice. He hasn't been sleeping well recently, and bags, dark and pulsating have rimmed his eyes. Never less, whereas his appearance will reveal his exhaustion, his actions will never do. Matsuri's been bad recently. Really bad, and Gaara just can't seem to get through to her. At the same time, his illicit actions, though they do not trigger any conscience, bring back memories. Memories he had buried and forgotten and was happy to loose.<p>

"You may." Comes the cryptic answer. Gaara detects some kind of evasion, some hidden tactic.

"Your business as you have explained it to me makes no sense," He falters, then decides to continue his onslaught. "There are many issues. Is Ignorance bliss, or are you hiding something from me?"

A shallow sigh comes from the chair, and for a moment, Gaara almost thinks he has pushed the lady too far. His job pays well enough for his transgressions of illicit nature, and he does not feel as if he has betrayed his family. He would prefer it if he could keep his job.

"Ignorance is always bliss. A fool is always the happiest. Have you ever heard the saying- Better Socrates dissatisfied that a fool dissatisfied, better a human satisfied than a pig satisfied? John Mill. But you're not a fool, nor a pig. N-neither was I." She pauses, and Gaara is unsure of how to counter her. She begins again. "W-what I mean to say, what I want to say…" She pauses again.

"There is no real way to describe my business to you. No acceptable way. You will never understand what importance my work has, because you shall hopefully never have need for it. All you need know is that yes, blood is involved. All you need know is that it borders on illegal, but as of the moment, there are no direct laws against it because the government isn't even aware it happens. The public too has no idea. They are blissfully ignorant, and so are you. If you so desperately want to become dissatisfied. If you want to upset yourself… I will give you that chance, but I hope that your curiosity will never provoke you."

"I don't understand." He admits.

"It's better this way."

"Is this your answer?"

"If you want to become dissatisfied… with your satisfaction there is a key that opens the steel door you would have noted in the hidden kitchen. It's in the staff kitchen, in the key box, under 'second exit' hidden in sight, if you like. I'll remind you again that opening that door will do nothing but dissatisfy your curiosity. You will be left with more questions that I will refuse to answer. You'll have to find out by yourself, and you will be left worse off. Rest assured, Ignorance is bliss."

"Hn." He states, and nods, his mouth sets in firm line.

In the chair, his mistress with her all-seeing eyes notes that that is the same expression her dearest cousin used to wear. Determined. Set. Stoic.

He stalks out of that depressing room, leaving the hidden woman alone. He paces down the hallways, keys first and foremost in his mind. He waltzes into the staff kitchen, the back of his neck tingling with excitement and curiosity. If asked, Gaara would say he had no time for mystery, but this intrigues him, and piques his interest. He simply has to know now. That steel door has been on the back of his mind since he first attempted to open it. He locates the key with ease.

"Oh- Gaara-san. I'm glad I have found you." Kurenai talks with ease, her lithe dancer's body practically floating into the kitchen and sitting itself at the table.

Gaara sits himself down too, his legs jumping under the table with anticipation to find what is hidden in the second kitchen.

"I've found another picture of the mysterious Hinata." Kurenai squeals.

She passes him a picture, already creased and visibly old.

_**Hinata Hyuuga**_ is printed on the back, no flowery writing nor secret sentiment written into the words. There is no date, or age, but instead of black and white, the photo is sepia toned. He doesn't know if that has any relevance to the age of the photograph. He flips to the front, to a profile of a woman, more likely the Hinata in the first photo than the current Mistress, who he has established to be far too old for this sort of photography.

She stares accusingly from the picture, her features blurred even though she looks to be still. Victorian still. She has the same white eyes as her relatives from the first picture, but they are blurred, and her eyelashes waver and crash into one another. So do all her features. Nose blurs into pale cheek, eye meets eyebrow, chin crashes into mouth.

Gaara stares. He knows that photographs from this period are always taken from still camera, and despite her blurriness, he senses an air of deathly still from this photograph. He pushes his lips together. "Say." He finds himself asking. "Where did you find this photo?"

"There is a servants dormitory in the eaves. I went up there because I was curious of the old servants quarters- I wanted to know the history of the place. see; I've been here long enough to free-roam if you like. I know so little of the Hyuuga family, I thought I ought to know a little more about the people who served under them. Well anyway, I went up- all the beds are arranged in rows like a dormitory, they must have kept at least fifteen live-in servants, and that doesn't even include the butler and House-maid. I must have been in the female dorm though. There's probably a male dormitory too."

"How did you know it was female?"

"Oh. There were several flowery paintings on the wall. It was a legitimate guess I suppose."

Gaara grunted. "How did you find the picture?"

"Oh- It was on the floor. I just picked it up. It's dark up there, and it's dark too- I would like to go up there again, but I'm kind of scared. It gave me the creeps. Do you want to come up with me now?"

Gaara felt the key's weight in his pocket, and sighed, knowing he wasn't going to resist the lure of the servants quarters. The steel door wouldn't be going anywhere soon.

"Sure. Show me the way."

She picked up a torch from the emergency box and led him up to the fifth floor and up into the servant's corridors, twisting and turning through ill-used servants corridors that stank of dust and decay. Eventually they reached a small, narrow fleet of stairs.

Kurenai went first. "Here we are."

Gaara smelt the room before he saw it. Dust and decay was present, yes, this room hadn't been seen to in years, but there was an over-riding scent. Dried flowers maybe, delicate, subliminal and powdery was sensed. Kurenai was probably right to think this a woman's dorm. Beams dipped low from the ceiling, and with Gaara's height he had to bend his knees. Although the ceiling sloped, there was flat wall space, and there were small tokens- pictures of flowers and religious scenes present. There were windows too, but heavy curtains hung over them, and when Gaara pulled back the curtain, heavy dust fell, along with dead moths. There was no light outside anyhow. Both Gaara and Kuranai had worked late today.

"Oh. There's a light-switch silly me!" Kurenai noticed with her flashlight. She started the light on, but as soon as she did, there was a flash of light that died with a satisfying pop. "They're old lights" Gaara observed. "The fuse has probably gone downstairs."

"I'll go." Kurenai said. "This place still gives me the creeps."

"Can I have the flash light?" Gaara asked. "I still want to explore."

Kurenai gave him an exasperated look, one that Gaara didn't understand why he got it, but she handed him the torch and left him to explore. He investigated the beds, made with soldier like precision, but covered in dust, and fully made. The dust had settled over a long time. He progressed past Kurenai had stepped, her little feet visible in the dust. Beds lined the walls, and the wall extended, until it met a dead end. A flash caught his attention, and he moved the flashlight.

The light caught the brass knob of a door, and in spite of himself, he sighed. Another locked door to test his luck on. Probably the house-keepers or another high-ranked servant. His eyes narrowed. The dorm was long enough to reach to the end of the house from the direction they had come in from. This door must be the last door on this floor. His curiosity propelled him forward, and he strode across, making new footprints in the dust.

He tested his luck on the brass handle, and was pleasantly surprised with a click and with a twist of his hand, and some persuasion in the form of banging his side against the door he entered, albeit with dust sprinkling his shoulders and hair.

The pungent smell of mixed flowers- roses, lavender and violets overcame his senses. This was where the smell originated from. It was more pungent that the aroma of potpourri, but there wasn't a flower in sight. There wasn't even a window, and he noted that the bricks separating the dorm from this room did not match the wall- this room was added later by hastily erecting a thin wall.

The room was comfortable- the bed was large and had a thick mattress which was covered with patchwork quilts and pillows. It looked far more comfortable than the servant beds. A large fireplace blackened by use stood in the corner and an ornate writing desk stood to the side. It was covered with parchments and quills. Though the room was not large, every effort had been made to make the owner comfortable- the flat wall was covered in bookshelves and the entirety of the room was covered in pastille patterned wallpaper. The richness of wooden floor was apparent and a wardrobe had been placed in the room, as had a wash table.

It didn't feel like a house-keepers room. There was far too much youth- it seemed like a younger person's room, not a child, maybe an adolescent, but more likely a young adult. There was even a little teddy-bear left on the corner of the bed. There was far too much wealth.

But there was no window, nor a light bulb, and the only source of light in this cramped room appeared to be a candlestick which sat on the writing desk. He walked over and inspected, only noting plain parchment originally, but eventually coming across a little bound book, tattered with use, and crawling with book-bugs.

Brown leather covered the book, and a little buckle secured the side. Had it not been embossed "_Property of Hinata Hyuga" _it would have never found its way into his pocket, and he would have never found himself lying to Kurenai.

"Found anything?" Kurenai asked, meeting him at the top of the stairs, out of sight of the door.

"Not really." Answered Gaara, who wanted to inspect the book more in the comfort of his own time. The Mistress deserved some privacy, he supposed, and his wage was more than affluent to ensure he was dog loyal.

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>

Hello there. Have I got anyone really interested now? It starts to get interesting from here... ( 'Tis a long and hard start), but yeah... shit'll go down in the next couple of chapters, there might be bloodshed, there might be heartbreak, there might even be some romance.

Drop me a review. It keeps the old grey cells going :D

(To the lovely 12hinata123 and NCQueen, who do not have private messaging, Thank you for your reviews :D)


	5. Solemn Saturday

**Later that evening (Hinata's diary)**

* * *

><p>Finally, after he had chased his daughter to bed and had read her a story out of the original Hans Anderson (a prompt from his Mistress) he reclined on the sofa, turned off the telly, and with a spring sticking into his back, he began to read the book. It might help him get to sleep he supposed, better than rubbishy late night television.<p>

It began fairly timidly with a childish scrawl, where he supposed the author was fairly young. Older than Yuka probably, but still young. The girl didn't quite seem to understand what a diary was for, and her interactions read much like this;

"_Papa says I have improved my piano scales immeasurably. I shall strive to get him to say this again tomorrow. I am blessed to have such a loving, kind father."_

"_Hanabi says my new bonnet makes my double chins look bigger. I know that in writing this sounds like such a cruel throwaway comment, and I did take it as that at first, running to my room to cry over my double chins. However, it is good that I have such a sister, to warn me of my appearance. I am blessed to have such a sister."_

"_Today Neji knocked me down. I do not know quite why, and my knee still hurts. I must find what warranted this attack, and curb whatever distasteful behaviour provoked Neji. Neji is a blessing too, but I'm not quite sure in what way. Perhaps his blessing in my life will reveal itself eventually. I await the day."_

It continued like this for quite some time, and Gaara got bored, until the girl aged slightly, and the paragraphs extended, and slivers of text expanded into essays on complicated feelings and conflicts within the household that seemed to be forgotten the next day. He almost set to book down, but he came across a passage that attracted his attentions.

"_I have met the man I will marry. I am convinced I am in love with him. My heart pulsates and my legs are aquiver. This must be love! I do not know his name, but he has blond hair, a hefty laugh and good teeth. I am smitten…"_

The text went on, about her feelings and this boy- his sun kissed locks, his blue cerulean eyes, his large mouth, and Gaara found himself reading of this girl's first crush. Her emotions and deepest feelings laid bare.

"_His name, his glorious name is Naruto! I say it now, three times because I am in my bedroom, alone, and there is no-one near to me. Naruto, Naruto, Naruto! He is an Adonis, a child of the sun! So handsome and bright and funny! He is happy too, and his laughter- everything- simply everything is glorious. I hold him highest in my heart, above Jesus, Mary and God! His presence blesses my __Life!__"_

This continued for a long while. A very long while. Gaara read every word, smitten with her innocent obsession, her dreams and darkest secrets scrawled down affectionately in such an human and kind manner Gaara couldn't help but be charmed by her bumbling sweetness. But eventually, soon after when she turned sixteen, the text changed dramatically.

"_My Father has informed me that Naruto is the illegitimate child of a politician. He knew nothing of my attachment, and his words were not catered to my affection.I dare not say it aloud, but my father called him a "Bastard" .I cannot attempt to socialise in his circles anymore. We cannot marry. My affection is useless. Now in privacy, I cry for myself, but my heart breaks for the boy I have never talked to, but watched from afar. Is it possible that I can harbour such affection for a man I have never conversed with? I have fallen in love with a man of my own creation, a persona I have attached to a handsome face. Perhaps it is better this way. But I wish, just this once... I could have conversed with him and made good judgement of his character. With this news, I have developed a cough and it has only gotten worse. My body has begun to weaken"_

Sure enough, the entry looked to be peppered with the dark smudges and inky blurs associated with tears. Several pages had been ripped out, and he skipped to the next available page. This too was smudged with the same dark blotches.

"_I have met my Fiancée. He has black, straight hair, and dark, piercing eyes. His lips curl into a satirical smirks. I ought to be in love, like many of the Ladies of Paris and London are, or so I have heard. I know better than that. He has a fierce temper, and is totally and utterly selfish. His name is Sasuke, and he is of the Uchiha family. We are a good match financially, but I do not love him. _

_He is not Naruto, he holds me with no love, as I have imagined Naruto would do. He smoulders with anger whenever his Brother is near, and I dare not attempt reason with him. He is all of the qualities I abhor in a person. He swears and spits and cares nothing for decorum. Several times he has taken me aside to private places, and stolen kisses, but he is simply forcing himself upon me. I look at him and watch him burst into flames of anger, when I do not respond... He cannot understand me. He shall never understand me. I will kill myself before I marry him. My frail body is of no match to him, and as of yet, I have hidden my ill-health, though I have no doubt It will be discovered soon. My chest aches at all time, and sometimes I find it hard to sit up. I have begun to spit up blood."_

_"It's odd. I know I'm being weak, and I know that I'm hurting him (Sasuke). But for once in my life, I want someone to hurt as much as I am- I want him to know what it is like to have the one you love reject you. I doubt he loves me. Very much so. But I want to hurt him, and I think he too wants to hurt me. I can understand that. And that makes it worse, much, much worse. am I being selfish? Am I going mad? Heaven help me, I don't know myself any more. My chest worsens by the day, and my circulation has worsened, my feet are cold through the night and my feet have to be wrapped up in mittens or they shake terribly. It is almost as if a demon sits upon my chest, stealing my breath as I lie twisting and turning at night. I am a little afraid."_

He skipped again, tiring quickly of her depressing discourse- the political talk of her family, the extended descriptions of the Uchiha family members, her family's responses, her illness. The nest article of interest was written with shaky hand, and it took a long while to understand what some of the words spelt out.

"_I am suffering I suppose. I threw myself down the stairs today. Into the marble floor. I am writing with my left hand. The doctor says I have broken several bones. I don't know which ones though, but it was an impressive few for my first time, but I suppose I have known, known for a long time that in the blood and spittle I now constantly wheeze out of my body, there is death and only death. I have only so much time left._

_Doctor Orochimaru attended. He didn't talk much, just examined me, without the presence of a nurse or maid. I have never allowed a man to see my legs, not even Neji, so to expose my body- to lie without any clothing was quite bizarre I suppose though that he is a doctor. He is a remarkable man-but I say remarkable in a negative manner. His tongue is long and lolls around his mouth. Sometimes he licks his lips, and it's rather disgusting. I suppose that his tongue makes his pronunciation so odd. He says he is from the Scottish Isles, but he looks and speaks like a gentleman, perhaps Swiss? He is also pale and only comes at night, but I suppose that he must be the best if my father has hired him. I hear that eccentricity is very fashionable at the moment."_

"_Another Doctor visited today. He claimed I had female hysterics, and ought to rest. I said Doctor Orochimaru had not said anything of the sort. I confused everyone. I don't know why."_

"_I have concluded that Dr. Orochimaru is not a repeated hallucination like my maid has told me. I know because he touched my neck to take my pulse, and his cold fingers still have imprints on my body- I could not have imagined that coldness on my skin. I am absolutely sure of it- I am __not__ a weak woman, as Neji and Father have thought previously. I have a strong constitution, and I am not prone to hysterics nor hallucinations. When I say a man has examined me, I speak the truth. Neji said I was making a fuss for attention. I was rather offended, and refused to talk to him nor conform to his negotiations. I jolly well know myself. "_

"_Dr Orochimaru came again tonight. He told me that I was an interesting study of a human. I cannot for the life of me understand by that sentiment. He says that I am an experiment. I have heard of men of science and their discoveries, but when I asked him what he wanted with me he simply curled up his lips and said that I had great potential. He the spoon fed me a foul beverage and I dozed off, but not before he stated that he was looking for immortality. I think it must have been a joke to see me off to sleep."_

"_The other doctor came today, but I was asleep. A maid told me he thought I was wasting away. She said I had a broken heart, and petted my head, rather condescendingly. I was too tired to protest and went back to sleep. I shall go to sleep now. I am overcome with lethargy since I drank that drink..."_

"_Hanabi was sitting by my bed today when I came to. I asked her why I why I ought to have a broken heart. She held my hand- I had never seen her so kind or worried. She told me that Sasuke was now engaged to Ino Yamanaka. I would laugh and scream with glee was I not so tired. I do not think Hanabi intends to be such a blessing, but she is. I love her very much and it hurts me to see her so pained because of my afflictions. She is kind and cares, though she attempts to hide it."_

"_My lethargy increases every time Dr. Orochimaru attends to me. I'm starting to become suspicious, but my suspicions have been cast away by my family members, who believe him hallucination. They tell me to scream if he appears in my room, but I am unable to do so, be it the awful cold that has developed on my chest or the sheer way that he looks at me. I don't know why, but I cannot speak when he enters the room or undresses me with his eyes. I can only ever watch him come to the side of my bed, and then examine me. Sometimes he talks, but he always says that it perturbs him when an experiment tries to make small talk. I attempt to tell him that I have not given my consent, but he tells me he needs none, as he is saving my life. He injected me with a serum."_

"_I am tired today, and my cold has worsened. Let me rest."_

_"The priest came today, and when I awoke, he was saying holy prayers, and blessing my room. I asked why he was doing this, and the poor man jumped so badly. I could see the whites of his eyes, he was so scared. I was confused. I asked him why he was saying those prayers over my deathbed- was that normal. He told me he was preforming an exorcism. I can't remember after that. _

"_Neji has been kind, and stroked my hand. I told him forgave him for saying I was lying. He broke down in tears, and then quite oddly, swiped a tear off his cheek, and drew a cross into my head with his wet finger. He told me to fight it, but I told him that I can't fight death. I don't know why he was so scared. Orochimaru came later today, and I asked him why he came. He answered that his only instinct was to prolong life, and that was all that he intended for me. He has no bad intent, but I don't think I can believe him. Still, I was injected and examined."_

"_Orochimaru has not been here. I feel a little better, yet I feel oddly forsaken…"_

"_He came, but lethargy overcomes me now. He has told me that I have tuberculosis, and that I am dying, but he tells me he can bring me back. I asked if he meant from the dead as a joke and he simply grinned madly at me. I am quite afraid of him now."_

"_I am tired of drawing letters when my body is so weak. I shall draw a line for each day I wake up. It shall prove I am not dead."_

_IIIII_

The diary narration ended there, and Gaara flipped through the book, unsatisfied. This didn't fit in with the pictures he had seen- Hinata with her siblings at an older age than this. This couldn't be accurate- she had survived this illness. The girl in the diary was only days from becoming eighteen, but there was an older Hinata. There was nothing relevant in this diary. It made no sense.

He almost put the book down, but noticed a note slotted into the cover at the back. His curiosity unfettered, he pulled it out. He could smell that scent- roses and lavender and violets with the opening of the note. It was the same handwriting, less shaky than before.

"_I have escaped death, and now death escapes me. I lie. I have become death. It's fairly morbid."_

With confused gaze and tired fingers, Gaara placed the book and note on the floor and went to sleep, forgetting the book and thinking of that steel door. He dreamt of what may lie concealed behind it, and had nightmares through the night, only half sleeping, only half dreaming.

But that was quite normal for him.

* * *

><p><strong>Wednesday, 30<strong>**th**** of June, 1999**

* * *

><p>For seven days the key had lain in his pocket. Seven days. After the attic scene something had changed in him. Something had happened to Hinata Hyuuga- or at least, the girl in the book. Evidence seemed to say that it was impossible for the girl in the diary to actively be his mistress, but his intuition seemed to say otherwise. There was something about the way this girl wrote, and the way his mistress spoke- the fact that he read the diary in her voice, that told him that his mistress and girl were one in the same.<p>

But f that were true, then his mistress would be ancient. He had heard of people living exceedingly long lives before- mostly in old bible stories, but in a day of modern science and innovation it was possible he supposed. And she was filthy rich. God knows what you could do with that type of money. But it didn't add up at all. He knew someone couldn't live that long.

He sighed, and turned his thoughts to other matters.

Perhaps there was nothing in that room beyond the kitchen. Perhaps it was a test. A test for what he did not know. He couldn't sense what was being tested. He had no idea. Hinata and the Hyuuga mansion baffled him. He had never been baffled like this before. He didn't like being baffled. He didn't like being tested. Hinata seemed to be sending him down here more often- collecting bags for couriering to the shady Kiba and Shino (Kiba persisted in giving him frankly odd messages for Hinata, that seemed to embarrass the poor woman), and making her hot drinks- mainly teas, but sometimes hot chocolate.

He couldn't stand it anymore- that trickling down the neck, that desperate curiosity. He was in the kitchen now, making godforsaken camomile tea. The steel door gouged into his back. He whipped around, half expecting another person to be there, but only the steel door was there. He felt like somebody was watching him through the blacked out window. Perhaps if he opened it someone would leap out and attack him. He narrowed his eyes. Nobody could take him.

He stalked over to the door and peered in. It revealed nothing. He sighed. He had no idea what laid in there. He stalked over, and weighed up the different knives in the knife block, finally settling on a light, stiletto like chopping knife. A little preparation had never hurt.

He turned to the door again, knife in one hand, key in other. The key slotted in, and unlike everything else in this house, turned with ease, releasing no dust. The door opened. He had been right. Lights turned on in his admittance. He was in an industrial freezer. Lines of shelves lined the walls, holding frozen bags of blood and holding labels- "**A pos" **was to his left,** "O neg" **was to his right. He was standing in a blood bank. He shivered the cold penetrating into his skin. Another door opened at the end with a twist of the key, and Gaara exited, gladdened by the warmth that he was greeted with.

A padded examination table lay on the side of the room. Sterilised equipment- things he supposed were for blood taking lay to the side. He examined the equipment, and found it was all plastic within sterile bags.

There was nothing to do with mortuary equipment at all, only blood taking. This made no sense whatever. Gaara sighed. Whenever the puzzle that was Hinata Hyuuga seemed to come together, it only fell apart. Did he seriously believe that woman was Hinata Hyuuga, more than a hundred years down the line? She wasn't on the organ black market, he supposed, but she was involved in blood. But who would pay for blood when blood transfusions were on the NHS?

He exhaled, and walked out of the rooms, back into the kitchen. Hinata Hyuuga was stockpiling blood. For what reason, he had no idea.

He made the tea, and walked up to her room, almost used to the stifling heat.

"Consider me a dissatisfied Socrates. Or a human. I thought I qualified for that though."

"Oh. I thought you would have gone in earlier. I just thought you hadn't asked." She replied sweetly.

Gaara chuckled, his breath heated by the fire. "I'm not quite that quiet Mistress. Where would you like the tea?"

"On the usual table. You are excused."

Gaara bowed and took his leave, his curiosity oddly salved rather than hungry. He had had his fill of mystery and excitement for the week. He had a family to look after.

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday, 13<strong>**th**** of July, 1999**

* * *

><p>"Sweetheart…" Gaara pleaded. "Calm down. You're upsetting Yuka. She said she was in her room all day hiding because you were crying so much."<p>

His wife shook in the corner, her skin pale and her eyes wide and terrified. She didn't recognise him at all. Gaara didn't seem to realise. "The child should know better." She snapped, angry and vicious for no good reason. She refused to call that girl Yuka, or acknowledge the child as hers. As far as she was concerned, Gaara had planted a leach in her womb at some point- and that leech had twisted into human form, taken fingers and fingernails and stolen into her body for nine months. It looked like her, but it wasn't part of her.

It had stolen her form to fool her, but it didn't any more, because a child that was hers wouldn't have wrecked her figure like Yuka had. The child was a leech.

"She's four." He seethed, fuming, his terrible anger provoked. She cowered, remembering what he could do to her if he got too angry. She didn't want to be boiled alive or buried within a motorway bridge. He continued. "She was so scared she wouldn't go out to the loo. She went potty in her doll house. I'm glad we could only afford the shitty plastic one. I'm disinfecting it as I speak."

She whimpered as he spat at her, his eyes cold with malice but his voice deceptively level and calm. She didn't know this man. The man she had dealt with initially- the gangster, the child, was easy to read. He had two level settings- deadly angry and deadly calm. When he was angry, all it took was for her to bury his head in her bosom and whisper sweet sentiments that were half-truth sometimes, but half-lie too. She had loved him and hated him in equal part- but those emotions had never cancelled one another out. They had had a habit of heightening one another. She had dealt with a child then.

She looked at the man in front of her now, and had no idea how to react. This wasn't a boy who played with people as cats play with mice, this wasn't a boy who flew into rages at the smallest mishap, and this wasn't the boy who would murder and order murders like the price of life was as insignificant to him as it was to God.

A man stood in front of her, aged and tired and almost broken, haunted by his past, and threatened by his future. There was no real anger in his voice, or malice. Just a lack of sleep and excess of coffee, and the stress that his new job- (what was he doing again?) and the child and she supposed, herself had cumulated.

He went on.

"What is wrong with you? I'm paying out of my nose for the drugs, and I'm doing all I can, and you don't even try to get well. You don't even care about us. I've done so much for you." He shook like a leaf. The child she had once known (That spoiled, _ungrateful_ child) would have lashed out then, smashing his fist into a wall (but never ever her).

But instead he sat down and buried his head in his hands, his long fingers raking through his red hair, and moaned, his voice heavy and forlorn, like a child that needed to be consoled.

Matsuri remembered faintly that she had once loved those fingers and the man they belonged to dearly. That reminiscence made her sad. incredibly so. She bawled like a baby, hands clenched in fists and knuckles tight with half remembered sentiments, but also half-forgotten sentiments. Those hands had been kind to her once, when they had been cruel to so many others.

Gaara once would have held her tightly, kissing her forehead whilst she shook and bawled, but now he just watched, like he was observing an animal in a zoo.

"Please. Please. Take me to a Doctor. Please." She croaked, her voice hoarse.

"I can't. We're not legal citizens. Our documents are not official. We're not the people we are pretending to be. We have new lives, we left all the bad behind. My Brother Kankuro made them up for us. You know him, Matsuri? Kankuro? The forger?"

She shakes her head, and in a way, Gaara is relieved. She was Kunkuro's whore before she became Gaara's. "I'm sorry," he sighs, more to himself than her, like this can be washed away with cute sentiment and his humble apologies. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Pluh-Please." She cries desperate, forgetting his kind fingers and the man-child she once tamed for her own gain. He's trying to make her sick. All this time, the pills, he buys the food, he buys the toiletries. He's probably put it somewhere she would never think of. He's hidden it in the toothpaste or toilet cleaner or… God knows. He's been breaking her down. He'll probably want to take her to bed now, take advantage of her weakness, like all those other men have, before he planted that leech in her.

Thing is- all that poison and bad-yucky he has put in her- she'll never get it all out. She's dug a molehill out of a mountain, and that mountain is getting bigger. She's heard that each year mountains get bigger- they are pushed up by tectonic plates under the surface of the earth. Her mountain of bad-yucky poison is getting bigger by the day, and she can do fuck-all, but carve at it. A mixture of her pain and fear prevents her from going any deeper.

She shivers, and pushes him away, her eyes lowered and demure. "Can I collect myself?" She pets her face, and gets rid of the tears that have streamed down her face.

"Of course. However long it takes. I'm in this long term." He takes her hand and kisses the back, and Matsuri does all she can to prevent herself from jerking away from the cavalier action, her husband's obvious show of affection. But both husband and wife realised it was too cavalier, too obvious, too forced and brave in the face of the obvious.

He exits and closes the door, going no doubt to his baby, who sleeps next door. Sometimes Matsuri can hear her daughter's breath through the thin walls- children her age always have a cough or two to annoy their parents, and Yuka is no exception. She purrs when she is sleeping though, it's not snoring and it's not typical breath. It's a soft heady purr that rumbles through her nose and penetrates through the thin bedroom wall.

Sitting on her bed cross-legged, she constructed a fort around herself with the sheet and awaited that heavy, breathy nasally breathing to send her into noisy, but ultimately peaceful half-dreams.

* * *

><p><span>Author's note<span>

Hello there :) I'm taking a short break from this (not because I'm not interested, but because I have a lot of work to get on with!) I'll be back to it soon, so do not worry!

I hope your're enjoying all my little red herrings and cul de sac plot lines. I am. Stuff like this writes itself on a good day :)


	6. Wednesday, Bloody Wednesday

**Friday, 23****rd**** of July, 1999**

* * *

><p>"My wife is ill. I hate to leave my post, but I have to request compassionate leave. My wife- my wife is suffering from an illness. For a while I thought she was well enough to leave alone, but now- now she's far, far too ill to leave alone at home." he sighed, his voice weighed down with unsaid worry. "It's a mental problem. I need to request this leave. I'm sorry," he actually was, but was surprised by the tone of guilt that spread into his voice.<p>

Hinata was an old woman, and she needed to be looked after, especially in an old house like this. His efforts had made it almost habitable, and he was reluctant to leave Hinata on her own, even with Kurenai about. This house is too big to be managed by one woman with a child as her first priority.

"It's no problem. Explain to me your wife's problems."

"Mistress, this is hardly appropriate-"

She interrupts his protest. "You don't say what illness it is. You don't specify her problems. I have no doubt that you can't take her to a real doctor- you're an illegal immigrant and a criminal to boot, you can't risk going to an NHS doctor, and your funds are too low to go to a private clinician. I doubt you have the contacts to get a private, secretive doctor anyhow. If you're intelligent, you'll have cut those contacts a long time ago. Now, listen to me. I have contacts in my line of business highly suitable to your wife's needs. Now tell me what manner of problem it is, and I will do my best for you. You're a good butler, and I don't want to have to re-hire, or lose your services. I can help."

Gaara sighed, and relented, glad to accept help from a woman he knew would aid him. Even though his employment had been brief, and his Mistress more than a little shady, he was desperate. He had no problem accepting help when he needed it- as long as he didn't have to admit to it.

"It's a psychological problem. I don't know what it could be. She's always been forgetful, but now she seems to forget faces, who she is, who I am, our daughter too. Sometimes she thinks we're in America still, and gets confused- terribly confused when she goes out. She seems to have developed a deep seated paranoia. She's more scared of me than anything, but nothing I can do seems to alter her perception. I am at wit's end. I wouldn't be considering leave if it wasn't essential. My apologies-"

"Are wholly accepted. I understand your position. Make me a cup of tea, and consider your leave from there. I will contact you when I have found a suitable practitioner. Psychologist or physician?"

Gaara faltered, not knowing what would be more suitable to his wife's problems. If a doctor was needed, perhaps it was curable and could be dealt with- but perhaps it was a brain cancer- the thought had crossed his mind. But alternatively- a psychologist could reach down deep into his wife's mind, and uncover things. Things Gaara didn't want to accept or remember.

He didn't have a choice. "Whatever's acceptable. Whatever you can find. Any help is help none the less."

"I have a man who is a bit of both, and better than most. I'll find him for you. It might take some time."

Gaara laughed darkly. "I have time," he said, his mind on other things.

But he didn't.

* * *

><p><strong>Monday, 2<strong>**nd**** of August, 1999**

* * *

><p>Two knocks sounded at the flat's door. Yuka and Matsuri didn't even look up, but Gaara did. It was late- it was dark out and nobody ever called on the family. They didn't have friends, and they didn't have living relations. Somebody was going to attempt to kill him. He slipped into the kitchen and extracted a knife he had secreted in plain sight. It wouldn't do much against an assassin with a gun, but if Gaara could maim the attacker, there was a greater chance of Matsuri and Yuka escaping.<p>

"Who is it?" he called cautiously, making sure not to place his eye on the spy-hole. When he was a Yakuza youngling he had once taken a target out by placing a gun to the spy-hole and awaiting footsteps and the inevitable lurch of the door when the victim had placed his body against the door. They hadn't even had to enter the apartment, and Gaara had gained some serious reputation with that one hit.

Why had he just remembered that?

"Sai. I come here on the orders of Lady Hinata, of the Hyuuga lineage?" came the voice, flattened and monotone. There was something not quite right, and remembering the girl Hinata's diary, he couldn't but think of the bizarre doctor- Orochimaru.

He opened the door reluctantly, playing his luck. The man outside smiles with gay abandon- too much so.

Gaara narrows his eyes, and lets the man in, observing how thin and pale this doctor is, how lank his hair, and how greasy. His every movement is calculated and perfect, his hands remain in neutral position, and his eyes give nothing away.

"She's in the lounge."

"Of course she is," he smiles again, and they both know how fake it is. "It's probably best if we speak alone. Bookworm mentioned paranoia and confusion? Is there anything more?"

Gaara almost nodded, but couldn't bring himself to do so. "I can't think of anything obvious." He paused. "Bookworm?"

"I believe that cute nicknames increase the bonding process. It's a theory I'm working on."

Sai's face revealed nothing. It was as blank as an empty canvas, and Gaara couldn't even begin to wonder what was crossing his mind. "Is it okay if we talk alone? I have a feeling that she'll be less inclined to speak if you're in the room."

Gaara nodded. He agreed, even though he was worried with what may come spilling out. "I'll take my daughter out."

He left Sai, introducing him to Matsuri in the dingy lounge and settled Yuka to sleep, telling her another Hans Anderson story; Thumbelina. It was a tad more positive than the Little Mermaid. Eventually, when he came to the end Yuka was half sleeping, her eyes drowsy and swimming with her imagination.

"What does Mistress Hinata look like?" he asked, surprised at himself.

"She's lovely. Really Lovely," murmured Yuka, he words floating out of her mouth.

Gaara choked back any other questions, and let that be her answer. She drifted off to sleep easily. It wasn't as if Yuka had a Grandmother or any elderly figure in her life. Just her ill-Mother and her Father, who was more absent than he ought to be. Anyone paying attention to the scruffy little thing could be considered lovely to his dreamer of a daughter.

He made his way out to the hallway, and stood by Yuka's door, dismally noting the curling paintwork and damp marks on the ceiling. The house was never clean. He could never get anything clean, not permanently. He sighed, his breath curdling under his nose with the rank smell of takeaway curry. He looked down the hallway, only hearing the slight murmur of awkward, forced conversation over TV monologues.

He reclined awkwardly, his hand moving to the back of his neck in an attempt to scratch the tension- that trickling electrical feeling away. Inhaling stale air, he moved to the kitchen, his legs sluggish and slow. He sat down and inhaled again, slow and steady and constant.

Sometimes he wondered why he had chosen her. When Hinata had asked him, he had no idea how to answer. He had probably wondered why she had settled for him a thousand times over. The woman he had met with, slept with in a haze of mixed alcohol and drug infused gambit was never the woman he had married and eloped with. Perhaps like the girl Hinata he had taken one look and placed importance on the politician's bastard child Naruto- where Hinata had admired a gut-wrenching laugh, he had simply admired the way she had slid over his brother's sheets, half naked, half covered, raked her eyes, glazed over, drunk, high, over his body in a way no woman had done before.

"I want you," was all that she had ever said, and in a drunken, high stupor she had sold her body and soul away. He attempted to look at it through her view point, painful as it was. All she had ever had was her feminine wiles and intelligence. She had never been paraded as a great beauty- brown hair, brown eyes, olive complexion. Perhaps that was her saving grace. Men that were attracted to Mafia work seemed to take delight in destroying things, especially things that held significance, or were special. It brought the special down to their level.

Had he destroyed her? Inadvertently, accidently? He sighed and rested his head on the table. Hinata had given him compassionate leave, but having to deal with Yuka and Matsuri tired him out more than work. He hadn't realised how bad things were, and felt guilty for leaving Yuka at home so much. When he returned to work, he was certain that he would have to bring along Yuka.

Matsuri needed her rest, and Gaara didn't want to hire a babysitter. A babysitter in the house could upset Matsuri, and even with his wage, he didn't want to drop Yuka off at a nursery. They might ask questions about her mother, and he didn't want to answer them.

He sighed, and bundled his arms together, forming a make-shift pillow, and pushing his head onto them. His long, thin nose bent oddly to the side, and twanged unpleasantly. He'd broken his nose at least twice and his nose was bent slightly to prove it, but slight twangs of pain were common, as he had never seen a doctor for the nose, only let it heal over.

He pinched the bridge of his nose to sustain that feeling so it ached. There was something reassuring in that pain, something kind.

"Mr… I was never told your second name-" the doctor interjected, his voice flat.

"Gaara. Just keep it to Gaara. " Gaara muttered, releasing his nose and hoping that he hadn't pinched too tight that his fingers had left imprints. He stared into the doctor's black eyes. "How is she?"

"Unwilling," sighed the doctor. "As is convention. I think I'll be able to help her should I stay here for a while, let her acclimatise to my presence. You own this flat, right? Would it be reasonable for me to sleep on the sofa?"

Gaara gurgled slightly, his mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish. He didn't have much of a choice, but at the same time he didn't want the doctor in his house. Where would he sleep?

"Okay," he heard himself say. "The sofa. I'll make up the sheets"

Sai smiled infuriately. "The sofa. Cool," he stretched out the "oo" sound in "Cool" far too long, and that annoyed Gaara.

Gaara frowned and turned away. They had a futon hidden somewhere, and he was sure that Yuka wouldn't mind her Daddy sleeping on the floor by her bed.

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday, 10<strong>**th**** of August, 1999**

* * *

><p>"So Matsuri-chan... how are you feeling today?" Asked the spy, his black eyes unreadable.<p>

Matsuri nodded stiffly, and stood up, back ram-rod straight with her breakfast plates. "I'm very well, thank you," she answered in her soft Seattle accent, stiffness sinking into her words.

"That's good to hear, Matsuri-chan," the Japanese man smiled with far too many teeth. "Would you like a nickname?"

A shiver ran down her back, long and lengthy and cruel. His eyes bore into her, analysing every movement in a manner incredibly predator-like. Her husband slipped into the room, slipping on his socks as he went along.

He looked so tired, Matsuri noticed. Over-stretched, like butter spread too thinly over toast. Even his wild hair seemed less buoyant, and the bags under his eyes had taken on a kohl like texture, waxy and vividly noticeable, starting to surround his eyes.

Now there were two of them, ganging up on her.

She shrank into the corner, and watched their movements like a gazelle watches a herd of lions.

Gaara turned to the sink and began to pour water for the dishes. Sai reads the newspaper and tuts under his breath at every little line of text that isn't to his satisfaction whilst playing with his food. Yuka comes in, all smiles in a gingham check dress, and proudly shows Sai the bruise on her arm.

She tells him that she thumped the kid back harder with pride in her voice.

Alarm bells go off, nails screech down blackboards, dentist drills spin and microphone feedback churns through Matsuri's head.

She's like him alright.

She's known for a long time, a long, long time that her daughter isn't her daughter, despite those eyes and those lips and that general face area. But here's the proof. What type of little girl hits back, she wonders, somewhat in stupor. Matsuri never hit back, that's for sure. She took what she got, all of it, all the time, time and time again. Matsuri was never one to fight back.

What was the point when everyone else was bigger and stronger than you?

Matsuri looked at the girl again, including her as another enemy in this kitchen. There were three now.

Matsuri could remember being quite attached to the scrawny, miserable mess that had been Yuka when she had been born. She hadn't even looked human, instead looking like a red screaming malformed monkey foetus. She had been sweet, pathetic. Ugly. Not a threat to her at all.

But then she had grown up and left her, and exposed her true nature.

Matsuri furrowed her eyebrows down and concentrated, thinking of the ways she could get the bad-yucky out of her daughter.

"I'll be working tomorrow" Gaara says, and Matsuri jumps out of her thoughts and into the scary, terrifying world of reality.

"O-oh" She voices, trying to sound as normal as possible.

"You'll be here with Sai and Yuka, so you ought to be fine," he says, trying to convince himself that everything won't fall apart without him.

Which it will, inevitably, Sai or no Sai.

Sai's presence has only put off the inevitable.

Which will happen tomorrow.

Bloody Wednesday awaits.

* * *

><p><strong>Wednesday, 11<strong>**th**** of August 1999**

* * *

><p>The shower is his only holy place. Water trickles down his body, into his grooves, knife wounds and bullet holes, places that will never heal, but have become eternal features to the plains of flesh. It is the only human reminder of what he once was.<p>

The rest has been erased. Decimated, destroyed. His brother is a forger somewhere in the world, he knows for certain. Where is not important, nor is the current status of his brother. He has a sister too. Married. Probably has kids. More likely owns dogs nowadays. What he did to her cat when he was little might have set her off cats. It was a fat, comfortable thing that she would give shreds of her food to when she was little.

Their father would keep them starved, of love, attention, of heat, when he could, and of food. It was a Spartan lifestyle put about by a crazy man, but the intention, to make the child feral, to make the child hungry, to make the child content with whatever life's luxury achieved—was successful. The Sabaku children grew from troubled children to hungry adults, desperate to devour the world.

But the childhood only made them greedy. It was so poor they could never be happy. The only happiness, or at least for Gaara, was to hurt others. So when he saw Temari feeding a cat out of her pitiful portions, receiving the caring burr of the cats warbling purr, of being approached, he rationalised that he was preventing her from starving.

But, rather, he killed the cat because he was jealous of the cat's love. It was the beginning of a long and successful career.

That he didn't think about anymore. That wasn't him anymore.

He once killed a teenage couple because they had the audacity to be holding hands in front of him. They were at least five years younger, and they were giggling and being affectionate, and the gunshots he had fired were true music to his ears.

And he was ashamed now. Perhaps he had been at the time, but at that point, he no longer cared. It was something only now-

He sighed, and placed a hand against the slick tiling, pushing this memory, like many others out of his head, using his other hand to grip the shaft of his penis, rubbing his hand up and down in a slow, uncaring rhythm.

No matter how many people you kill, nor the matter of women you sleep with, or even the love of a good woman, at some low point, he reasoned, all men, great or small, would have to wank alone, with the weight of a long and heavy day on the back of their mind.

He hadn't slept with his wife in a long time. Not since he had discovered that she was pregnant. His own mother had died in pregnancy, giving birth to him, and that possibility had been upmost in his mind. He had loved her. Very much so. He had slept with other women before her, but infrequently, very rarely. He had lost his virginity when he was twenty-three. Very late for a kid like him, and only because he was pressured into it, plied with drink.

He could neither remember her face, nor her body, only the high feeling of orgasm, a parched ecstasy ruined by his very real need to vomit at the same time.

He was not a sexual being. He did not seek out sexual encounters. On occasion, he had intercourse. Experimental. Sometimes needed. He was renowned in the organisation for not discriminating between women and men, for showing no preference or sympathy for either gender. Some proclaimed him a woman-hater whilst the more intelligent simply discerned that he must be asexual.

And asexual was how he had felt about himself, and in himself, before he had met Matsuri. She had taught him what it felt to be seduced, what the touch of a woman, good or bad, could feel like, what it was to be truly and totally intimate.

And when he impregnated her, he did the right thing, for the first time in his un-godly life.

It was a very romantic whim, whisking his pregnant mistress away to a new life in London.

His hand sped up, the tugging on his penis quicker, faster, more desperate, wet slaps of flesh against flesh echoing, sadly, around the tiny bathroom.

But he had only known Matsuri on her terms. She had flailed when they wedded, her shivering in a council registry office with a thin cream slip on, making no mistake that the bump of her abdomen was a pregnancy.

He came into his hand, with very little release of tension. The shower washed away any incriminating substance.

He glanced at the clock, reading the time with a sigh, making to rush out of the flat so he could catch the train.

* * *

><p><strong>Note from the author <strong>

Decided to update this (because I haven't in a long time, and felt guilty after getting a lovely PM). I've just finished my final exams. It's been really tough- some of the exams have become much, much harder than the year before, and I'm really concerned that I might have to do an extra year, resitting exams to get to uni standards. (Which I feel I'm already at, but this year's exams have been so hard that I'm worried I'll fail, miserably)

But enough of my angst ;) I think it's time for some serious post-exam fiction writing, and a nice long summer, lots of warranted hangovers and days at the beach.


End file.
